


see how thy hands are torn (thy gentle hands)

by flightofwonder



Series: i love the way you see the world [4]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (in regards to the last section but i'll get to the Comfort in another fic), Broken Bones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fade to Black, Hurt Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manhandling, Medical Experimentation, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Slavery, Whump, broken trust, please know that i hurt joe because i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26842210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofwonder/pseuds/flightofwonder
Summary: A consequence of an immortal life was the loss of certain memories. There would come a day when Nicolò forgot where or when this incident took place. He would forget what they were fighting about, or why. Such details were insignificant when reduced to the sands of time.But as long as he eternally lived, Nicolò would never forget this look on Yusuf’s face.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: i love the way you see the world [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864540
Comments: 34
Kudos: 243
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	see how thy hands are torn (thy gentle hands)

**Author's Note:**

> Is this a fic or a bunch of fics in a trenchcoat? Who's to say. Do they even thematically fit together? WHO'S TO SAY. I just really wanted to write this, so here I am.
> 
> The second part is the most graphic in terms of descriptions of bodily harm, so if you'd rather skip that, please do. 
> 
> You don't need to read the rest of the series to read this - the main thing to note is that Joe is deaf and has always been - but this is kinda-sorta part 1 in a specific two-part story. I'll indicate which fics need referencing when I... write that fic.
> 
> Thank you to literally everyone who has supported this universe thus far. I reread your comments frequently; to say they mean a lot doesn't do it justice.

_See how thy hands are torn - thy gentle hands_   
_Beloved, not by me, not by my kiss_   
_Thy infinite heart to all men open stands_   
_O I alone, alone, should have that bliss_

\- _Pietà_ , Rainer Maria Rilke

* * *

A consequence of an immortal life was the loss of certain memories. There would come a day when Nicolò forgot where or when this incident took place. He would forget what they were fighting about, or why. Such details were insignificant when reduced to the sands of time.

But as long as he eternally lived, Nicolò would never forget this look on Yusuf’s face.

When their argument reached a fever pitch and Nicolò, frustrated, _cruel_ , clamped his hands over Yusuf’s as if putting them in irons. Trapping them. Silencing him. 

He realized his mistake as soon as he’d done it, letting go as if Yusuf’s hands scorched him, but it was too late.

He had seen that face angry, had seen it furious; he had seen Yusuf bloodthirsty, seen him quench that thirst with his scimitar through his chest. None of that compared to the way Yusuf looked at him now.

His ink-black eyes were wide and glassy, and the hurt in them tore at Nicolò’s heart like a physical blow. It was devastating, watching Yusuf’s beautiful face twist and contort in response to Nicolò’s ugly betrayal. He immediately tried to mask his hurt with anger, of course, but his furrowed brows couldn’t hide the naked vulnerability in Yusuf’s eyes.

It was a coward’s way out, he knew, but Nicolò stumbled from their tent into a moonlight abyss before Yusuf could condemn him.

He wandered the desert like a poor man’s Messiah for a long while. He had no thoughts, no yearnings, just terrible, monstrous guilt. Yusuf had been generous enough to stay with him all these years, had _trusted_ him enough to create a signed language with him, had _loved_ him – and Nicolò spat on that trust. There were so many things Yusuf should have never been asked to forgive Nicolò for, and yet, Yusuf had forgiven him anyway. If this betrayal was what finally broke their covenant, Nicolò would not blame him, even as he despaired at the very thought.

But searching for penance in a wasteland was an old habit, and by now he knew it was a wasted one. He could despair over his actions as much as he pleased. It didn’t make his sins forgiven. _If you feel such guilt, then do something about it_ , as Yusuf had furiously written to him, decades ago.

His feet somehow made their way back to their tent when the moon was still high in the sky, trapping those below in a timeless precipice of darkness. When he worked up the courage to enter, the first emotion he could discern from Yusuf’s face wasn’t hatred, but concern, and Nicolò’s stomach twisted at the sight. Of course, his open concern did not mean Yusuf wouldn't leave him. Yusuf could hate him and still worry because Yusuf was a good man. He was the best man Nicolò had ever known.

A beat passed when all they did was stare. Then, Yusuf's long and deft fingers twitched for something to say – Nicolò recognized when Yusuf was holding himself back by now – but before he could do anything, Nicolò kneeled in front of him, blowing his head down low.

The silence was deafening. Nicolò was eye-level to one of Yusuf’s hands. He watched it as it tentatively moved towards him, but it skirted back the second Nicolò began to reach out. It was deserved, but Nicolò felt it like a slap to the face.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Nicolò signed. I was Yusuf who had created that sign, who touched his forefinger to his heart and then his forehead, and it was Yusuf who used it first to apologize to Nicolò. But Nicolò would never learn another word in another language if it meant he could make this known to Yusuf. He couldn’t meet Yusuf’s eyes, didn’t deserve to, but his hands repeated the motions, over and over again.

When Yusuf placed his palm on the back on Nicolò’s knuckles – open and gentle, not at all like what Nicolò had done to him – Nicolò wept. He pressed that precious hand against his lips, then his forehead, devout and prostrate. It was a useless gesture, but it was all Nicolò knew how to give.

But instead of pulling away, as he had every right to, Nicolò felt another calloused hand softly cup his neck. It felt like a benediction.

He had no idea how long he kneeled and wept in front of Yusuf, but at some point, the other man got to his knees as well. He urged Nicolò to look at him with the gentle ministrations of his hands. The look on Yusuf’s face was severe, but he wiped away Nicolò’s tears as gently as a mother would for a child.

 _“Never again,”_ Yusuf signed. Nicolò nodded, with the full weight of his promise behind him.

Nicolò risked pulling Yusuf’s arm around his waist, and Yusuf let him. Nicolò held Yusuf tight like the precious treasure that he was. It wasn’t until he felt wetness on his scruff that he realized that Yusuf was crying, too.

They held each other like that for a long time, long enough that the sun started to rise in the east and color the desert sands with her ethereal glow. As they pulled away and the light reflected in Yusuf’s eyes, he knew he was being given a sacred second chance. He wouldn’t waste it.

Yusuf got to his feet. He offered his hand to Nicolò and, with all the wonder of a man reformed, Nicolò took it. But not before kissing it once more.

* * *

If there was one thing that drove a slaver mad, it was when supposed subservients refused to stay in their proper place.

Yusuf, however, could make the argument that it was a matter of perspective. For example, he considered himself much higher above any man who made his riches from selling human skin, so he wasn’t particularly inclined to fall in line for him. The roguish man that loomed over them probably disagreed.

What a man like him thought didn’t really matter, though. He and Nicolò had successfully smuggled out his last batch of Muslim prisoners, and God willing, they had reached the coast by now. What this Spanish trader did with them now was inconsequential, which only provided to enrage him further.

They hadn’t planned on getting caught, of course. They had hoped to track the line of employment and dissuade further trades from being made, but sometimes, fate wasn’t on their side. They were a good distance from the nearest Spanish settlement, and while his cohort wasn’t of a significant number, they were more skilled than they originally thought.

Yusuf counted them again as their leader went off on some tangent that poor Nicolò had to listen to. How he felt about being deaf depended somewhat on the circumstance, but when forced in front of egomaniacs like this man, he counted himself lucky. He imagined it was much easier to take stock without having to drown out a useless voice.

A blow landed on his head, knocking him to the ground. Before he could recover, rough fingers grabbed his curls and forced his head back upwards, right into the red and spitting face of the slaver. The physical sting disappeared quickly, and Yusuf relaxed back on his haunches as the meaningless dribble flew right over his head.

The slaver released his head with a push, and Yusuf had to fight a smile as he marched away. He caught Nicolò’s eyes, cold as stone as they landed on the other man, looking enough of a threat even on his knees, two more men came to restrain him. The pig must have said something particularly insulting to Yusuf, and Nicolò took offense on his behalf. Yusuf found the habit chivalrous, if not a bit of dilatory. Still, Yusuf couldn’t say he wouldn’t act similarly if their positions were reversed.

Those frozen daggers immediately melted when they landed on Yusuf, and he gave him a reassuring grin in return. No matter their peril, the innocents were safe, and while Yusuf didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of being sold as a slave to Christians, no doubt what the slaver was threatening, he and Nicolò would find a way out of here before that could happen.

They started to discuss as much with the leader’s back turned. Their hands being bound limited their speech, but they had created a shorthand language with gestures long ago. At least their hands were bound in the front, giving them the space their fingers needed.

Yusuf had just told Nicolò how many men he had counted when the slaver turned around again, eyes immediately catching those moving fingers. If it was possible, his face got even redder. Yusuf silently delighted at the scene. He had no doubt that he thought a deaf man was incapable of communicating, much less without him noticing.

But his joy evaporated when he felt Nicolò tense beside him. The next moment, he was being hauled to his feet. At least four men had to drag him towards the slaver, and though Yusuf couldn’t see him, he knew Nicolò would be fighting just as fiercely.

Two men pulled his arms taught as the others pushed his knees and torso into the ground with their full body weight. Not understanding why he was being positioned as such, he fought with all the strength of a wild stallion, successfully bucking at least one man off, but two more emerged in his place and wrestled Yusuf to the sand before he could use the entrance to his advantage.

The slaver leaned into Yusuf’s sight of vision, leering gleefully, and Yusuf just scowled back. But when he brandished the mallet-like object in his hands, a thrill of fear went through him.

His hands. They had exposed his hands.

The pain came quickly, but it was no less sharp or terrible for it. Yusuf felt the delicate bones in his fingers splinter and break as the mallet came down again and again. He felt his knuckles and fingers shatter under the skin from the brutal impact, and the repetitive pain washed over him like a flood.

He probably screamed. It was difficult to tell.

Yusuf had known pain, had known death, but this torture threatened to drown him. _I’ll never speak again_ , he thought deliriously, but of course, that wasn’t true; the splinters of bone that stuck out were already sliding back under his skin, and although Yusuf’s stomach swam at the sight, soon there was nothing but a bloody mess left behind.

He barely noticed when the men holding him down released him, and he curled in agony as the bones in his fingers forced themselves back into place. His breathing was heavy and labored, and his world was swamped by the pain that was only just starting to recede. He forced himself to sit up and looked around, the fog of pain dispersing as he took count of what surrounded him.

The only thing he could see were bodies - or pieces of them. In the middle of the carnage stood Nicolò. Drenched in a river of blood, a sword hanging loosely from his fingers.

The earth felt off-kilter as Yusuf starred, until Nicolò finally turned and fell to his knees in front of him, using the enemy’s sword to get the ropes off Yusuf’s wrists.

Yusuf hadn’t realized he was expecting his fingers to still hurt as Nicolò’s own hand hovered over them, close but not touching; a mimicry of shelter. The look in his eyes was a storm manifested, but he was gentle, so gentle, as he helped Yusuf to his feet and led him away from the bodies and towards the horses.

Days later, washed of blood and as whole as the day Allah made them, Nicolò’s hand would still hover by Yusuf’s, a question in midair. He never took it until Yusuf turned his palm upward, but once their hands were intertwined, Yusuf didn’t think he would ever let go. He didn't think he'd much mind if he didn't.

* * *

Nicky heard Joe’s rasping gasp and immediately turned to seek out his eyes with his own. He watched as Joe’s wrists struggled against their restraints – not violently or desperately, just instinctively, because Joe always had something to say, and he used his hands to do so – and Nicky sat quietly and attentively as the past few hours caught up with Joe in the waking world. When they did, Joe deflated with a mixture of misery and relief.

They had taken so much blood from Joe; not enough to kill him, but to leave him unconscious for a long period of time. Nicky’s eyes flickered between his prone body and the heart monitor behind him, wishing he could feel his heartbeat for himself, the most basic reassurance they’ve given to one another for almost a millennium now. But if Joe was conscious, if he was here, he could work with that. At least, it was enough to stifle the panic rising in his throat. They would work out the rest when they were able.

That same panic still reflected in Joe’s eyes, and Nicky felt an ugly frustration that all he had to give to comfort him was his own eyes meeting his. Cut off from touch and signing, Joe was kept from more than just freedom by those restraints.

Nicky waited until the doctor had left the room, a door swinging shut behind her, before trying to speak.

“As much as I like watching you sleep, I’m glad you’re awake,” Nicky whispered, every vowel and consonant as sharp as he could get them. Lipreading was never a guarantee, not even when trying to understand Nicky, but he had to offer Joe something.

But Joe, wonderful Joe, beautiful Joe, shot him a wry grin and said: “Bedhead?”

Nicky snorted, laughing louder than he intended, but seeing Joe smile made it more than worth it.

There were so many things Nicky wanted to say to him, to offer him. He wanted to remind him of Malta and see that teasing grin in return. But he couldn’t start pushing their luck. They’d been successful in hiding Joe’s deafness from the doctor thus far, and Nicky had no doubt that this woman would be eager to run extensive individual tests on him if she found out. His chest tightened at the idea.

So, instead, he smiled quietly at Joe and let him read the words between the lines of his expressions as he had for hundreds of years now. It was a pitiful comfort, but it had to be enough. If only he could reach out his hand.

Nicky’s eyes shifted above Joe’s head, and the other man correctly surmised that the doctor was heading their way and turned to face her with a scowl. He didn’t lack for things to say, never Joe, but silence was their best option for keeping his deafness secret. Nicky could tell that Joe practically bit his tongue as the doctor brought another syringe and came around to the other side of Nicky.

He didn't look away to see what she was doing. Instead, he gave Joe a last reassuring smile before he felt a tight pinch to his arm. As the world dissolved around him, he determinedly kept his eyes on his light, his northern star, his home, until darkness finally overtook him.

When he came to, the first thing his eyes focused on was Joe. He’d done it a million times before, and he would do it a million more. But in the strange concoction of pain, dizziness and nausea, it took time for the world to widen beyond Joe’s concerned eyes. There was a figure in white behind him, making short, quick movements that Joe wasn’t paying any mind to.

His breath froze in his chest when Nicky realized: it was the doctor, snapping her fingers next to Joe’s ear. And Joe wasn’t reacting.

Joe must have seen the horror in Nicky’s eyes. He turned and saw what the doctor was doing, but it was too late. That monstrously inquisitive smile was plastered on her face. At the sight of it, Nicky began to struggle against his bonds, but Joe just closed his eyes, resigned. Defeated.

It was one of the most horrible expressions Nicky had ever seen on his beloved’s face, and it riled him to fight harder, even before she motioned for the guards. It was clear then what she was planning to do.

“Fascinating,” she muttered.

“No,” Nicky hissed, desperate for enough force to break his wrist in the restraints, but there wasn’t enough give.

“Don’t touch him.” His voice was as hard as stone, but the terror underneath it was evident even to him.

As a guard came to his bed to tighten the restraints, Joe opened his eyes again, slow and methodical. Nicky's desperate fury only rose, and he couldn’t be sure what he was shouting now, or in what language. All he knew what that they were taking Joe from him, they were going to torture him _alone_ , and Nicky couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t.

“Nicolò,” Joe muttered with so much reassurance and care, Nicky couldn’t help but still. The sound of his name on Yusuf’s lips had always rendered him immobile.

 _“All will be well,”_ Joe reassured him in old Genoese, his eyes as soft as moss on a field, and Nicky wanted to cry. He wanted to rage and scream and weep as the guards and the good doctor rolled Yusuf’s pliant form from his side, away from him. He lost circulation in some limb, but he couldn’t be bothered with that, too desperate to keep contact with those eyes that held mountains in them, that soft and defined face, his whole world – no, more than that, a _good man_ who had only wanted to help humanity, and was this his reward?

Nicky shouted and screamed as they pushed the table Joe laid on through the threatening metallic doors –

And just like that, he was gone.

* * *

The European countryside sped past, and Joe took it in from a careful distance as he looked out the train window.

That was how Joe was handling everything: carefully. He was an eruption in that lab, that vitriol of fury and confusion and hurt aimed directly at Booker. But that wasn’t something that could be sustained, not if they wanted to welcome Nile into the family properly. Not if they wanted to figure out how to fight with Andy’s new mortality. There were so many things he had to face and unpack in such a short period of time, and if he remained angry at Booker for what he did to them, that meant his mind had to linger on what was done to _him_.

And Joe… Joe was so tired.

Nicky watched him openly from across the way. He didn’t bother masking his curiosity or concern, but at least he’d been kind enough to not voice them directly. The question of what happened to him once they were separated in that lab was a gaping wound. Joe couldn’t stand to look at it. It was still too fresh, too new.

He didn’t want to know what Nicky would do once he saw it, too.

But Nicky was patient, and he was kind. He knew without asking that Joe wasn’t ready to speak of it. That day would come sooner rather than later – Joe loved Nicky too much to hide anything from him – but for now, he let it be, and Joe was endlessly grateful.

He could have cried at that moment, on a train speeding through Europe, his mind and his family broken in equal measures. Instead, as if he knew exactly what Joe had needed, Nicky offered his hand. And Joe took it.

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober 2020 prompts: Manhandled, Support, Defiance, Broken Bones, Drugged, Experiment. Yes, I am a lot of fun at parties, why do you ask?


End file.
